


The Night Dean Winchester Ruined His Date’s Prom (But Got Laid Anyway), or How Lyla Durand Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bad Boys

by like_a_raven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, High School, Prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_a_raven/pseuds/like_a_raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of language. A bit of violence. A bit of sex. But only a bit.  
> J & L were amazingly helpful betas.

“Hey, Winchester, I got a proposition for you.”  
  
Heath Tillman, uninvited and unwelcome, sat down across from Dean at a table in the cafeteria at Washington High School.   
  
“Tillman, I’m getting tired of explaining this. I’m flattered, but you ain’t my type.”  
  
“Funny,” Heath said. He was the golden boy of the school, king of the varsity jacket crowd, and Dean was occasionally overcome with a strong desire to punch him in the eye for no particular reason.  
  
Dean waited a moment, but that seemed to be the extent of Heath’s ability to retort. “Yeah?”  
  
Heath leaned forward, slightly. “Hundred bucks says you can’t get Lyla Durand to agree to go to the prom with you.”  
  
Almost instinctively, they both turned to look over at where Lyla was sitting with several other cheerleaders. She wasn’t the prettiest girl at WHS, or the most popular, or the smartest, or the most anything, really. But if you averaged the categories together, she won hands down.   
  
She’d had some kind of long distance college boyfriend, but that had apparently gone belly up just before the Winchesters moved here after Christmas. Bradley something, Dean thought. And then he mysteriously vanished or something in March. Dean kind of suspected that the mystery could be summed up  _he wanted the hell out of this town_ , which Dean could understand. Nothing about it suggested it was the sort of “mysteriously vanished” that the Winchesters looked into.  
  
Dean knew far more than he cared to about WHS gossip because his lab partner never shut the hell up about it. Dean paid attention in his science classes – you never knew when you were gonna need to know how to make something blow up, and understanding physics didn’t exactly hurt when your life frequently depended on getting a projectile to hit the thing you were aiming it at. (He was careful to miss a few questions on the tests – he didn’t want anyone thinking he was some kind of geek like Sam. But only a few – let your grades get too low, and teachers wanted to talk too your parents.)  
  
“What do you say?” Heath asked, and Dean looked back at him.  
  
The thing about Lyla was that while she might not have a boyfriend, a girl like that probably had a prom date already, with the Big Event less than two weeks away. “You sure she’s even still free?”  
  
“She’s turned three guys down,” Heath said.  
  
“Yeah?” Dean asked. “You one of them?”  
  
Heath colored slightly and Dean had his answer. “Deal or no?” Heath asked curtly.  
  
Dean looks back at Lyla. “Hundred bucks?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“If she agrees to go to the prom with me?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Dean shrugs. “What the hell? Deal.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Lyla Durand had spent the last eighteen years doing what she was supposed to do. Or what people told her she was supposed to do. She was a cheerleader, class secretary, a soprano in the school choir, and an honor roll student. She was always cheerful, kind, willing to help out, and a joy to have in class.  
  
There were days she was pretty sure high school was going to kill her before it was all over.   
  
This was one of those days, an exhausting minefield of things that only matter to teenaged girls, and stepping in the wrong place is social suicide. A day of trying to remember who was – and wasn’t – speaking to whom this week, or what she was expected to like, dislike, know about, feign ignorance of, or ignore.  
  
She was sitting, now, on the low wall in front of the school, waiting for her dad, and trying to look like she was working on her French homework.  
  
“You mind?”  
  
Lyla looked up to see Dean Winchester indicating the section of wall next to the one she was sitting on. She was surprised enough that by the question that it took her just a second too long to reply. “Ah, no.”  
  
Dean dropped almost gracefully onto the wall, and Lyla tried not to be too obvious about the fact that she was watching him. He was a puzzle. She had gone to school with the same people since she was five. And while there had been occasional departures or arrivals, by second semester of senior year, there were not many other puzzles left in her class.  
  
He had pretty much kept to himself, though Lyla had occasionally looked up to find him watching her. When she caught him at it, he didn’t look away or seem embarrassed, just grinned at her and waited for her to be the one to look away.  
  
Lyla was not entirely certain that it wasn’t a sin to have a boy smile at her like that.  
  
“Are you waiting for someone?” Lyla asked, mostly because she felt like someone was supposed to say something.  
  
“Not really,” Dean said. “I was kind of looking for you.”  
  
“For me? Why?”  
  
“There’s a rumor going around you’ve turned down like a dozen guys for the prom. Wanted to know if it was true.”  
  
Lyla laughed, a little. “Only three.”  
  
“You mind my asking why?”  
  
“Um,” she said, suddenly very self-conscious. “Well, Rodney’s a jerk. And Jason’s hands wander. And Heath is a jerk whose hands wander.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Dean said. “So would you maybe want to go with me?”  
  
“To the prom?” Lyla asked.  
  
He leaned forward and fixed her with very green eyes. “Yeah. To the prom. With me.”  
  
Lyla could think of any number of reasons to say  _no_. She had no idea why he was asking; they’d spoken maybe three times, and she’d never seen him attend so much as a pep rally. (Not that she looked for him at pep rallies, of course.) She knew almost nothing about him. She had no idea what her friends would think about it. And she didn’t get the feeling he was the sort of guy her parents would be thrilled about her bringing home, either.  
  
But she was tired of being reliable little Lyla, always trying to do and say and  _be_  the right thing, tired of worrying about what everyone would think if she got something wrong.   
  
On another day, she might have turned him down. But on that day, she heard herself say, “sure,” even before she had quite decided to accept.  
  
Dean smiled. No, Dean  _grinned_. “So I’ll pick you up at seven.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Her father’s blue Volvo pulled into the school parking lot, and Lyla picked up her bag. “That’s my ride,” she said, wishing that her dad had been as late as he usually was. Dean nodded. “So, um,” Lyla continued, as her father pulled up to the curb, “I guess I’ll see you in class.”  
  
Dean nodded again. He waited until she had her hand on the car door – till there was no way her dad wouldn’t notice – before he caught her arm and then kissed her. “See you ‘round, sweetheart,” he said, and walked off.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
“Easiest hundred bucks ever,” Dean said to Sam that night.  
  
Sam was sitting at the kitchen table in their shoebox of a rental house, surrounded by his books and working methodically through his homework assignments. Dean was fixing dinner – hot dogs and Easy Mac.  
  
“Did you hear me, Sammy?” Dean asked, and Sam sighed and looked up from his math homework. “Easiest hundred bucks ever.”  
  
“A hundred bucks? To take a girl to the prom?” Sam asked.  
  
“Yeah. She’s pretty hot, too, so it’s not even like it’s gonna completely suck.”  
  
Sam nodded, but his expression was one Dean recognized. It meant, loosely translated,  _Okay, I have something to tell you, and I’m pretty sure you won’t like it, but I’m going to tell you anyway, just as soon as I figure out how._  
  
“What?” Dean demanded.   
  
“I think you got tricked,” Sam said, slowly. “Or something.”  
  
“Tricked?”  
  
“Well, I think . . . I think you kind of lose that bet even if you win,” Sam said.  
  
“How the hell does that work, Sammy?” Dean asked.  
  
“You know, it’s probably going to cost you more than $100 to go to the prom – once you buy tickets and rent a tux or get a suit or whatever, and buy your date a corsage—”  
  
“A corsage? Screw that idea.”  
  
“I think they kind of expect it,” Sam said.  
  
“Well, she can just stop expecting it,” Dean said, slamming food onto plates and bringing dinner over to the table. “Anyway, what makes you an expert on the prom?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “How many times have we watched  _Pretty in Pink_  in some motel room or another?”  
  
“A hell of a lot more than we ever have to admit to, Sammy.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Dean.”  
  
Dean didn’t reply, just started in on his food. He was almost done with his third hot dog when he grinned.  
  
“What?” Sam asked.  
  
“This whole prom thing? No problem.”  
  
“How?” Sam asked, cautiously.  
  
“Tillman bet me I couldn’t get her to agree to go with me. She already has. Everything else is just details, right? Pass the relish.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
When Lyla was eight years old, she stood on her front porch and watched her neighbor and favorite babysitter leave for the prom. Of course, that had been 1987, and it had actually been kind of hard to see Amy amid all the masses of hair and ruffles. Lyla, though, had thought she looked like a princess, and she had started planning for her own prom in that moment.  
  
Of course, she’d gone with Bradley to his last year, but that was different. That was Bradley’s prom. This one was  _hers_.  
  
She’d had to make a couple of substitutions. The dress selection was slightly picked over by the time she went shopping, and she hadn’t been able to find her dream dress, which would have been pale pink and vaguely evocative of both a princess and a ballerina. But the red looked good on her, at least, and she had found the perfect slightly tiara-like rhinestone headband.  
  
At precisely 6:57, she checked her handbag one last time to make sure she had everything, took one last look in the mirror, and then sat down on her bed to wait for Dean. That way, she could make her grand entrance down the front stairs.  
  
At 7:06, she got up to look out the window and see if he was there yet. And again at 7:10, and 7:12.  
  
At 7:15, she asked her mother if maybe Dean had called to say he was running a little late. He hadn’t.  
  
At 7:19, she looked out the window again.   
  
At 7:23, she went downstairs, because she could see more of the street from the living room window, and sat on the couch.  
  
At 7:25, she got up to look out the window.   
  
At 7:31, she asked her mother is she was  _sure_  Dean hadn’t called to say he was running late. Her mother was  _positive_.  
  
At 7:37, she moved one of the living room chairs over next to the window, so she could look out every 45 seconds or so without having to keep getting up.  
  
At 7:45, she asked her father if there was anything on the news about a tragic accident involving a WHS student on his way to the prom. There wasn’t.  
  
At 7:49, she went out into the front yard and over to the curb, and looked as far as she could see in both directions. Nothing.  
  
At 7:52, Lyla accepted that the unthinkable had happened. She had been stood up for the senior prom. She went back into the house and straight up to her room, not in the mood for either her mother’s sympathy or her father’s  _I told you that boy was trouble_.  
  
And at 7:55, a car pulled into the driveway, bass thumping, engine rumbling, and horn blaring.  
  
Lyla looked out the window. Her wayward prom date had arrived.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
In the driveway of Lyla’s cookie cutter suburban house, Dean sounded the horn again. It was almost 8:00; she had to be ready by now, right? He honked one more time and then sighed. He should have figured she’d be the ring-the-doorbell type. Dean killed the engine and went up to the house.  
  
He didn’t actually have to ring the doorbell, though, because the door opened the moment he set foot on the porch. Lyla did not exactly look thrilled to see him.  
  
She did, however, look pretty hot, if maybe a little overdone. The crown was definitely over the top, but the dress was red and pretty slinky, two things Dean approved of. Better, certainly, than cotton candy fluff pink or pseudo-wedding gown white.  
  
“You ready?” he asked.  
  
“What the hell are you wearing?” Lyla demanded.  
  
Dean looked down at his outfit and back up at her. He thought the answer was pretty obvious. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly typical prom attire, but the jeans were almost new and the shirt had only been mended once, and he cleaned both his boots and the leather jacket. This was as close to dressed up as Dean got. “Clothes. We going?”  
  
Lyla’s chin went up. “My parents want to meet you.”  
  
“I don’t really meet parents,” he said. But he stepped into the Durands’ front hall anyway.   
  
“Lyla, honey, is that Dean?” her mother asked, coming in with a camera in hand. “I want to take some pictures before you—” she stopped, smile fading, as she caught sight of her only daughter’s prom date.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Durand,” Dean said, and held out a hand. He counted to seven before she took it (his record was eleven). “Where did you want us to pose?”  
  
Mrs. Durand, with a very uncertain expression, put them in front of the fireplace, and took what was probably the bare minimum of pictures she thought she could take without being rude. She took a lot more of Lyla by herself, while Mr. Durand watched with unmistakable disapproval of the whole affair. He then pulled Dean aside for the  _you better have her home by midnight, boy_ speech. Dean saluted, and offered Lyla his arm.  
  
He could totally do the prom date shit if he had to.  
  
Lyla got into the Impala reluctantly and gingerly, like she was afraid of catching something from it, or getting her dress dirty. Dean was insulted – that car was never less than perfectly clean. Okay, so occasionally someone had bled all over one of the seats, but they had always cleaned it up immediately afterwards.  
  
“Nice car,” Lyla said, though he got the feeling she wasn’t even trying to sound like she meant it.  
  
“Thanks.” No matter what she thought of it, getting to borrow the car was always a big deal. Lately Dad had started to talk about them maybe needing to get a second one, and Dean was all for that. In the meantime, he didn’t get to take the car out alone all that much.  
  
He handed Lyla a plastic-wrapped peanut butter sandwich and a can of coke. “What are these for?” she asked.  
  
“Dinner,” he said. Dean started the engine and, to the dulcet tones of “You Shook Me All Night Long,” they headed for the high school.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Lyla sat in the passenger seat of what was probably the oldest, loudest, least reputable vehicle she had ever ridden in, holding a sandwich and a small black purse with nothing much in it. She thanked God that the music was too loud for conversation – the only things she could think of to say were not the sort of things it was wise to say to the guy driving the car you’re stuck in.  
  
The high school parking lot was already pretty full. Not surprising – they were over an hour late. Lyla was surprised, however, when instead of parking with the other cars, Dean opted to drive around to the back of the building.   
  
“Ready?” he asked, killing both the engine and the ear-splitting retro rock.  
  
“For what?” she asked, warily.  
  
“The prom? Kind of the reason we’re here, right?”  
  
“Aren’t we kind of far from the door?” she asked, tossing her uneaten sandwich onto the dashboard.  
  
“Not the one we’re using.”  
  
“What? Why?” she asked, and then the pieces snapped into place. “Oh my God, you didn’t buy tickets.”  
  
“Neither did you,” Dean pointed out, and got out of the car. She was a little surprised when he came around to open her door for her. Though not surprised enough to actually get out of the car.  
  
“Dean. I cannot crash the senior prom.”  
  
“Sure you can. Just follow my lead, sweetheart.”  
  
Lyla sighed and finally took the hand he offered. “You are gonna get me in so much trouble.”  
  
“As much as you let me,” he said.   
  
Lyla decided against asking what exactly he meant by that.   
  
She also decided against asking why he knew how to sneak into the girls’ locker room.   
  
Which was probably for the best.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Any other year, the more-than-an-hour-late arrival of someone like Lyla Durand, accompanied by a guy in jeans and leather jacket, and entering through one of the locker rooms would have been The Story to come out of the senior prom.  
  
That year, however, Shannon Costa had already arrived on the tuxedo-clad arm of Bradley Pritchard, Lyla’s missing ex-boyfriend.  
  
No one had seen Bradley since the he came home from college for Spring Break. He had gone to take a walk, his mother said, and he had simply never come back. People searched, but no one found him. He hadn’t turned back up at school. His parents, supposedly, occasionally found a letter from him on their front porch, assuring them he was fine, but providing no details.  
  
The rumors flew. He had joined the army or a circus or a cult. He had gone insane and been locked up, or gotten arrested. He’d gotten sick, or been in an accident, or gone to rehab.   
  
But one thing (possibly the  _only_  thing) that no one had suggested was that he would turn up at the prom with Shannon Costa. Because for all that she was the Queen of both the school and the prom, and for all she’d thrown herself at him over the years . . . well, he had never seemed to actually like her all that much.  
  
Dean was privy to some of that history thanks to his gossipy lab partner, though he wouldn’t have been able to pick Bradley Pritchard out of a lineup. He was pretty sure that his date was upset about something, though. She was frowning and tense, and he didn’t think it was because they just made their grand entrance through a back door. Or because he was a  _little_  late. And, okay, maybe he should have sprung for burgers instead of getting Sam to make sandwiches, but come on, it wasn’t like girls ate on dates, anyway.  
  
“You okay?” he asked.  
  
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said, a little too quickly.  
  
Okay, this was awkward. Dean didn’t really believe her, but he also didn’t want to run the risk of her suddenly getting all emotional and girl-like if he pressed. So he changed the subject.  
  
“See, sweetheart,” he said, “I told you that you could manage the sneaking in thing.”  
  
“I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”  
  
“Well, I didn’t think we were to the ‘baby’ stage of things, yet.”  
  
“Oh, we’re definitely not,” she said. “But you could call me ‘Lyla.’”  
  
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he said, looking around the gym. It could be worse, he decided. He had no idea why there were quite so many glitter-encrusted stars hanging from the ceiling, and the music  _sucked_ , but hey, that was to be expected. Lyla, he noticed, looked better than most of the other girls here. So far, it was shaping up to be a less than terrible night.  
  
“You want something to drink?” he asked.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Be right back.” But first he needed to find Heath Tillman.  
  
Somebody owed him a hundred bucks.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Shannon waited about five seconds before she excused herself from her date and came over to talk to Lyla.  
  
“Hey, Lyla, there are you are. I didn’t see you come in.”  
  
Lyla suspected her smile looked about as forced as it felt. “Guess you missed it,” she said. “You look nice, Shannon.”  
  
“Thank you.” Shannon smoothed non-existent wrinkles out of a pink ballgown-like dress. “Bradley seems to like it; he just can’t keep his hands off me tonight,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  
  
“I’m surprised to see him, honestly. Just, you know, given that no one has heard from him for a while,” Lyla said.  
  
“Well, he wouldn’t have missed being my prom date for the world,” Shannon said. And then, with incredibly false concern, asked, “You don’t mind that he came with me, do you, Lyla?”   
  
“No. Why would I? He and I broke up, Shannon. Months ago. And I’m glad he’s okay, we’ve all been worried, but I really don’t have any say in how he spends his time.”  
  
Shannon’s eyes narrowed. Lyla had a feeling she was not going to like whatever came next. Shannon’s perfect prom queen smile never wavered, though.  
  
“That’s so sweet of you. And I think it’s really great that you were brave enough to actually show up tonight, Lyla.”  
  
“Brave?”  
  
“Well, yeah. I mean, if my, um . . .” Shannon paused, and looked over at Dean, standing by the punch bowl, and then back at Lyla, “. . . well, let’s call him your ‘date,’ for lack of a better word. If my ‘date’ had only asked me to the prom because of a hundred dollar bet? I wouldn’t have been able to ever show my face at school again, never mind have the nerve to actually show up at the prom with him.”  
  
“Shannon, what the hell are you talking about?”   
  
“Didn’t you know? Everyone else does. Heath Tillman bet Dean Winchester a hundred dollars that he couldn’t get you to go to the prom with him. I guess you’re easier than Heath thought.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Dean wasn’t exactly surprised when Tillman didn’t have the cash on him. Annoyed, but not surprised. He took fifty bucks as a down payment, though, and that wasn’t a bad start.  
  
Dean was also not surprised to find that some idiot had spiked the punch, though he was a little pissed that they did such a bad job of it. Used some nasty shit vodka, and not nearly enough of it.  
  
He was willing to bet that Lyla wasn’t much of a drinker. Fortunately, he knew, thanks to some earlier experimentation, that if you hit the soda machine in the cafeteria just right, it would dispense orange soda without the use of quarters.  
  
The halls were pretty deserted once he got away from the gym. He did run into one guy on his way back who looked a little . . . wrong. It was hot and loud in the gym, though, so maybe the guy just sick and needed air.  
  
Lyla was still where he left her, talking to some blonde in a dress that was too damn pink even for Barbie. Dean couldn’t remember her name – Sharon, maybe – but she smiled when she saw him.  
  
(It was the sort of smile that made Dean wish he was armed – things that smiled like that were almost always evil.)  
  
“Hi, Dean,” she said. “We were just talking about you.”  
  
“Hi, Sharon,” he said.  
  
“It’s  _Shannon_ ,” she corrected. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. Bye, Lyla.”  
  
 _Shannon_  flounced off.  
  
Dean held out the can of soda. “Some idiot spiked the punch, so I thought you’d probably rather have this.”  
  
Lyla didn’t thank him. She didn’t take the soda, either.  
  
“Take me home,” she said, and oh, Christ, was she about to cry? He hated it when they cried. “Now.”  
  
“What? We just got here. Don’t you wanna do anything—”  
  
“Did you really think I wasn’t going to find out?”  
  
“Find out what?”  
  
“About you and Heath and your bet.”  
  
Oh, shit.  
  
Honestly? It had never occurred to him that she would find out. Or, well, it had never occurred to him to wonder if she would find out.  
  
“Hey, look, I —”  
  
“I’m not interested. You have completely humiliated me, and I just want you to take me home, and not talk to me on the way.” She turned, and walked out of the gym.  
  
Dean watched her go, and then opened the soda. She looked like she maybe needed a minute to calm down.  
  
Possibly longer than that.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Lyla stood by her date’s hideous car, and tried not to cry. There was no way she was going to let that bastard see how upset she was.  
  
She considered kicking the tires, but given that she had on open-toed, high-heeled shoes, she’d probably just wind up hurting herself.  
  
“Hey, there, Lyla,” someone said, and she turned to find Bradley standing by the door, leaned up against the wall and watching her. “Where’s your date?”  
  
“Around,” she said, walking over to talk to him. “Where’s yours?”  
  
“Shannon? Inside being queen of the prom,” he said. “I’d much rather be out here with you.” He reached one hand out to touch her hair, and Lyla jerked away.  
  
“Bradley, don’t,” she said. “We broke up, remember?”  
  
“Maybe we shouldn’t have. You are all I ever think about, Lyla.”  
  
“Which is why you’re at the prom with Shannon? After the whole disappearing act, and being gone for more than two months? Everyone’s been worried, where have you been?”  
  
Bradley shrugged. “I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter. I kind of owed her. But I’m done with her now.” He reached out to Lyla again. “Have you been worried about me, Lyla?”  
  
She stepped away, shrugging lightly. “Sure, I guess. I mean, no one even knew if you were alive or dead.”  
  
“I am,” he said, which wasn’t really an answer to that statement. But before Lyla could ask what he meant, he continued, “And it’s going to be better this time, Lyla. I promise.”  
  
“Bradley, cut it out,” she said, but his hand closed on her wrist, and she didn’t remember her ex-boyfriend being that strong. “You’re hurting me.”  
  
“It’s going to be better this time,” he said, again, and something was really wrong here.  
  
“Let go of me, Bradley. Please,” she said.  
  
“You have to come with me,” he said, and started to pull her away from the wall. “I need you.”  
  
Behind her, Lyla heard the trunk of a car slam.  
  
“Pretty sure she said to leave her alone,” someone said, casual but dangerous.  
  
Lyla’s wayward prom date had, once again, arrived.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Did Dean know how to pick them, or what?  
  
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” the other guy replied.   
  
“Well,” Dean said, amiably, starting to close the gap between them, “that’s my date you’re molesting, so this kind of is my business.”  
  
“Seriously, buddy, you should go. You don’t know what you’re messing with here.”  
  
That was only partly true. Dean was about 90% sure he was dealing with the guy he’d seen in the hall earlier. He was more than 90% sure that whatever was wrong with this guy, it was a hell of a lot more than needing some air.  
  
Of course, that didn’t tell him exactly what he was dealing with, though he had it narrowed down some.   
  
“Well, neither do you,” Dean said.  
  
The thing about a gun loaded with silver bullets was that it was the ideal weapon for relatively few things. But it was also not a bad weapon for a lot of things. Most weird shit was a little bothered by silver. Or by bullets.  
  
And if he was just dealing with some seriously messed up human being, well, pulling a gun was usually a good way to make the guy back down.  
  
“Okay,” said Lyla, “I think maybe everyone just needs to calm down a little. Or a lot. Or someone’s going to get hurt.”  
  
“Just let her go,” Dean says. “And walk away.”  
  
The thing holding onto her arm didn’t let her go, just pulled her around so that she was between him and Dean. Damn. Dad was gonna be pissed if he wound up shooting his prom date, even accidentally.  
  
“Please, Bradley,” Lyla said.  
  
“No. She’s mine,” Bradley said to Dean. And then, to Lyla, repeated, “You’re mine.”  
  
Christ, the lovesick ones were the worst.   
  
“You put the gun down and leave,” Bradley told Dean.  
  
Dean assessed the situation. Putting the gun down probably got everyone good and dead. Then again, the hand Bradley had just moved to Lyla’s neck looked like it could make her good and dead, too.  
  
Dean held his hand up, fingers clearly away from the trigger, and slowly began dropping into a crouch to set the gun on the ground. He never took his eyes off Bradley, though, and he was ready for it when Bradley shoved Lyla into the wall and jumped at him.  
  
That was what the silver knife up his sleeve was for.  
  
If his date hadn’t recovered her footing and tried to help him, it quite possibly would have ended right there. But instead she tried to pull Bradley away from Dean, and Dean wound up stabbing him in the shoulder instead of the chest. Bradley gave an inhuman cry and took off into the woods behind the high school, moving faster than he should have been able to.  
  
Dean looked up at his shell-shocked date. “So I take it that was your ex-boyfriend?”  
  
She managed to nod.   
  
“And was he a zombie when you two were together, or did that happen later on?”


	2. Chapter 2

“So I take it that was your ex-boyfriend?” Dean asked, as Lyla stood stunned, watching Bradley retreat into the woods.  
  
She managed to nod.   
  
“And was he a zombie when you two were together, or did that happen later on?”  
  
Lyla stared back at Dean, blankly. That was a particularly bizarre and badly timed joke. Or it was some kind of slang from wherever it was he lived before he moved here. “What?”  
  
Dean picked himself up off the ground. “Zombie? You know,  _Prom Night of the Living Dead_  and ‘braaaaaaaains’ and all that?”  
  
Lyla only managed to ask, “What?” again.  
  
“Your oh-so-charming ex back there? I’m pretty sure he’s a zombie.”  
  
“And when you say ‘zombie,’ you mean . . .”  
  
“Reanimated human corpse.”  
  
“That’s not even possi—”  
  
“Okay, sweetheart, we kind of don’t have time for me to ease you into the whole ‘there’s a lot of freaky weird shit out there’ thing. You ever heard the expression ‘don’t wound what you can’t kill’?”  
  
Lyla nodded.   
  
“Well, that’s especially true of supernatural shit. So I need to go find that thing and kill it, before it comes back to kill us.”  
  
“You’re going to kill Bradley?” Lyla asked, finally latching onto something.  
  
“No, I’m going to kill the zombie that used to be Bradley. There’s a difference. Bradley doesn’t live there anymore.”  
  
“Dean, look. I know, trust me I know, that Bradley wasn’t exactly acting like himself this evening, but he’s not . . . that’s just not possible.”  
  
“Oh, believe me, it is. So is a lot of other weird shit. None of which I have time to explain right now.”  
  
Lyla frowned. “So, you’re . . . you want me to believe you’re some kind of monster hunting expert person?”  
  
“I really don’t care what you believe. But right now, you are gonna go back in that gym—”  
  
“Like hell I am,” Lyla said. There was nothing on Earth that could induce her to go back to that prom.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“I am not going back to the prom. Especially not alone. There’s no way.”  
  
“Why the hell not?” Dean asked.  
  
“Because it’s just too humiliating.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Seriously, did Dean know how to pick them, or  _what_?  
  
“You’re insane,” he told Lyla.  
  
“You want me to believe that my ex-boyfriend is a zombie, and that you hunt zombies, but I’m the insane one?”  
  
“Your ex-boyfriend  _is_  a zombie, whether you believe it or not.” Dean was losing all patience with this conversation. “And I need to go deal with it before he hurts someone, which, given the whole _Fatal Attraction_  thing he had going on there, is probably gonna be you, sweetheart.”  
  
“Stop calling me ‘sweetheart,’” Lyla said.   
  
Because, yeah, that was clearly the most relevant point.  
  
“Look, let’s say you’re right,” Lyla said.  
  
“Which I am.”  
  
“Fine. If that’s the case, if Bradley is a . . .” there was a long pause, and Dean could see her trying to make herself say it, “. . . zombie, well, then, it’s not like anyone in there is going to know what to do if he turns up looking for me again. And if he’s coming for me, then I kind of want to stay with the guy who says he knows what to do about it.”  
  
She rubbed at her wrist, and Dean could already see bruises forming there. “Look,” Lyla said, “you may be crazy, and you may be a jerk, but at least you haven’t hurt me. I’ll take my chances.”  
  
Dean sighed. He really did not have time for this. Besides, she made a good point. If Bradley the zombie was looking for her . . . he might come to them, rather than Dean having to look all over town for his undead ass.  
  
Hey, Dad had never said anything about not using your prom date as bait. Besides, it wasn’t like he was gonna let anything happen to her.  
  
“Fine,” Dean agreed. “But you do exactly what I tell you to do, unless you wanna wind up the bride of the zombie prom king, understand?”  
  
Lyla nodded. “Okay. So, um, what do we do first?”  
  
“First we find a phone. I need to make a call.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Lyla sat on the bench next to the pay phone in the school lobby, listening to Dean’s half of a conversation and trying to make it make some sort of sense.  
  
She was having limited success on that front.   
  
“Hey, Dad. No, prom’s great. Yeah, I think so. She looks amazing, actually. Um, her mom took some. Yes, sir, I’ll ask about getting copies, sure.”  
  
Lyla looked up at him. Were they talking about . . . pictures? Was this really the right time to be talking about prom pictures?  
  
“Right. Actually, Dad, got a quick question for you. If I needed to kill a zombie, how would I go about that?”  
  
This was surreal. Lyla, a little reluctantly, finally let go of the idea that hidden film crews probably were going to jump out any second now, and this would all be an elaborate hoax.   
  
“Just one, I’m pretty sure,” Dean was saying. “Jesus, Dad, no, I can handle it. Sorry, sir. But, come on, Dad, I’m eighteen. No, sir. Yes, sir, of course, I know, but I’m pretty sure I can handle it on my own. I just don’t have the resources to do my own research right now. Yes, I can wait. Hey.”   
  
It took Lyla a moment to realize this last was directed at her. “Yes?”  
  
“You got another quarter?”  
  
Lyla dug around in her purse till she found another one. Her mother was a big believer in always carrying enough change to make a half dozen phone calls if you had to.  
  
“Thanks,” Dean said, dropping it in the phone.  
  
“So that’s your dad?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So, what, this is like some kind of family thing for you?”  
  
“Family business,” Dean said. “Only, you know, without health insurance and paid vacation time. Yes, sir?” Dean said, turning his attention away from Lyla again. “‘Nail him back into his grave bed’? Well, I’m not sure he has one. Apparently he just disappeared a few months ago and turned up tonight as a zombie. No, sir, I know. I just – wild dogs? Really?”  
  
Lyla looked up, and then back down. She didn’t, she  _really_  didn’t, want to know what wild dogs had to do with anything.   
  
“Silver? Silver I can do,” Dean was saying. “Well, I stabbed him earlier. With a silver knife. No, the one you got from Caleb last summer, actually. It was just the shoulder, but it seemed to bother him. Silver bullets to the heart should—wait, and then set fire to it, or set fire to it instead?”   
  
There was a long pause, while Dean listened to something.  
  
“Okay, I’ll try shooting it first, and then burn it either way. Salt, too, or – well, yes, always better safe than sorry. Yes, I’ll call you if I need anything else. Yes, sir. You can tell Sam the sandwiches were great. Okay. Thanks, Dad.”  
  
Dean hung up the phone.  
  
“So,” Lyla said, before Dean could say anything. “You have to go find my ex-boyfriend who is now a zombie, shoot him with silver bullets, and/or set fire to him?”  
  
“Yeah, basically.”  
  
“And this is like a normal Saturday night for you?”  
  
“Honestly? This is better than most.” Dean paused in the doorway of the school, and drew his gun, looking out into the parking lot before he held the door for her.   
  
“That’s another thing,” she said. “Why did you bring a gun to the prom?”  
  
“I didn’t really. It was in the Impala.”  
  
“You keep a handgun in the trunk of your car?” Lyla asked.  
  
Dean just grinned at her, and headed for the car.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Dean had to work to keep from laughing at the way Lyla’s eyes widened at the weapons cache, when he opened the trunk of the car. “So,” he said, “what do you know about guns?”  
  
“Um, that getting shot with one is bad.”  
  
“Right,” Dean said. He had expected as much, and he handed her a knife. “That’s silver. Try to aim for the heart, and make sure the person you’re stabbing ain’t me.”  
  
“Don’t give me any ideas,” she told him, but she took the knife. She looked puzzled, though, when Dean handed her the canister of rock salt.  
  
“Trust me,” he said, before she could ask. “We might need it.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Oh, and you need to lose that crown, princess,” he added. “I don’t need every damn bit of moonlight bouncing off your head like a damn mirror ball.”  
  
Lyla’s eyes narrowed a little, but she didn’t say anything. Just took off her headband and tossed it into the trunk amid the holy water and the shot gun shells. “Anything else?” she asked.  
  
“Just be careful,” Dean said. “Let’s go.”  
  
For several moments, they just walked, through the woods, following the direction Bradley had seemed to be going.  
  
Dean stole a look over at Lyla, and watched her flinch. He wasn’t sure why – she didn’t say anything about it – until he saw it again, and realized that the trees and brambles were catching at her dress and scratching the bare skin on her arms and shoulders. She really wasn’t dressed for hiking.  
  
“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and putting it over her shoulders.  
  
“You don’t have to –” she started.  
  
“Tones down the red,” he said, quickly.  
  
“Thanks,” she said, slipping her arms into the sleeves.  
  
After another moment, she said, “So, um . . . how does someone wind up a zombie, anyway?”  
  
“Magic. A lot of it. And not the rabbit in a hat kind. This is dark stuff.”  
  
“Look, this is insane. There’s no way Bradley knew how to do that. There’s no way Bradley even knew that he could have known how to do that.”  
  
“Well, it was probably somebody else, really. My money’s on the blonde he was at the prom with.”  
  
“Shannon? She’s what, like a witch? No way. I . . . okay, yeah, so there are some stories about her grandmother being a witch, but no one takes them literally. She was just a really mean old woman.”  
  
“Yeah, well, let’s take ‘em literally for a moment. You know this Shannon chick. That seem like something she would do if she could.”  
  
“If she could . . . maybe? She was always a little obsessed with Bradley, and she never got him. And well, he did show up as her prom date, and he said he did it because he owed her, when I asked him why.”  
  
“You asked him why?”  
  
“Hey, I didn’t know he was a psycho zombie at the time,” Lyla said defensively.   
  
“Okay, let’s assume she did it. She has to be keeping him somewhere. You know of any place she’d have access to that would be quiet, and remote, and secure?”  
  
“Um, well, the Costas have a boathouse out at the lake.”  
  
“And that’s through these woods?”   
  
Lyla nodded.  
  
“Let’s check it out, then,” Dean said.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Under other circumstances, Lyla thought it would almost be romantic, walking in the woods in the moonlight.  
  
Of course, those other circumstances required different shoes. And different clothes. And different company. And the removal of the whole hunting for a zombie thing from the equation.  
  
But the moonlight was nice.  
  
“Did Shannon, like, kill him?” Lyla asked.  
  
“Maybe?” Dean said. “Maybe she was just there at the right time, when he died.”  
  
“God, I hope she didn’t kill him,” Lyla said. “He . . . he really was a good guy. He totally didn’t deserve any of this.”  
  
“Good guy, huh?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why’d you break up with him?” Dean asked. “I mean, the guy still seems pretty into you.”  
  
“It . . . He was at college, and I never saw him, and he’s really bad at calling or writing, and I don’t know. It wasn’t anything really messy or mean, it was just . . . time to move on, you know?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. But he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, so after waiting for a moment in case he did, Lyla changed the subject.  
  
“Do we have a plan?”  
  
“I’m gonna find the bastard, shoot it, salt it, and burn the corpse. You’re gonna stay out of the way, and try not to die. Or faint. Or any girly shit like that.”  
  
“That’s the whole plan?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You don’t think maybe that’s less of an actual plan and more of an outline?” she asked.   
  
“It’s a plan with room for improvisation,” Dean said. “Seriously, sweetheart, all you need to worry about is not doing something stupid.”  
  
Lyla looked down at her now ruined $300 prom dress, and over at her only-asked-her-on-a-bet date, and up ahead, where the lake was now just visible through the trees. “First, for the last time, stop calling me ‘sweetheart,’” she said. “Second, I’m not exactly batting a thousand on not doing stupid things right now.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s the bottom of the ninth, two outs and the bases are loaded. Hit this next one out of the park, sweetheart, or the game’s over.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
There was a small amount of mist rising off the lake when they reached the edge of the woods. The clouds drifted past a nearly full moon, and the building Lyla identified as the Costas’ boathouse had a slightly rundown, dilapidated look going on.  
  
All in all, it was such a damn cliché that Dean found himself vaguely annoyed.  
  
“I’m kind of waiting to get attacked by a guy in a hockey mask,” Lyla said, and a single owl hooted in the distance.  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, I guess you’re lucky we haven’t had sex yet.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Come on, it’s like a death sentence in those movies. Have sex and die?”  
  
“Dean, if the key to staying alive is not sleeping with you, I’m going to have a long and healthy life.”  
  
“Hey, it’s okay as long as you wait till the monster’s dead.”  
  
“That is never, ever going to happen. So let’s just wrap up this little field trip to Elm Street and go home.”  
  
Dean took one more moment to leer at her, and then his smile shifted to something more feral. “Right. Stay back, stay down, stay out of the way, and do whatever I tell you.” He waited until she had nodded, and then started around the shoreline to the boathouse.  
  
Up close, it didn’t look as deserted as it had from a distance. There were clear signs of recent activity, things looked recently disturbed. The door, however, was chained and padlocked shut.  
  
“Damn,” Dean said. It would probably be easier to break the door down than get through that chain. Unless he wanted to go all the way back to the Impala for bolt cutters first. He supposed he could try shooting the lock, but silver bullets were gonna be crap for that. Besides, that sort of thing worked way better in the movies than in real life.  
  
“Try 17-9-28,” Lyla said, behind him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The combination,” she said, stepping past him, and picking up the padlock. “17-9-28.” The lock clicked open, and she pulled the chain free of the door handles.  
  
“How the hell did you know that?” Dean asked.  
  
“Shannon and I used to be friends,” she said. “Are we going in or what?”  
  
“Stay behind me,” Dean said.  
  
Inside, it was very clear that the place had been used recently. And not just for the storing of boats in the off season.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Dean said, looking at the rumpled cot in the corner. “This is definitely a zombie love nest.”  
  
And while he knew that the whole concept was gross, and that it wasn’t exactly a great line, he expected some kind of response. “I said,” he began, turning around, and then stopped.  
  
Bradley the zombie stood in the doorway, one hand over Lyla’s mouth, and the other at her throat.  
  
Well. Shit.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
“I really appreciate you bringing her back to me,” Bradley told Dean. “I’m still going to kill you, of course, but I’ll try not to let you suffer. Much.”  
  
Dean took a step forward, and Bradley tilted Lyla’s head back at an even less comfortable angle. “I wouldn’t, if I was you,” Bradley said. “It wouldn’t be hard to break her neck.”  
  
“Yeah?” Dean asked. “Thought she was supposed to be the love of your unlife. Killing her hardly seems like a good way to win her over.”  
  
“You aren’t going to risk it, though. Are you?”  
  
“Come on, let her go,” Dean said. “Don’t you need to go rule the prom with your queen?”  
  
“Shannon?” Bradley asked, and laughed. Lyla shivered. Zombies laughs were just plain creepy. “Shannon has been useful, I guess. But she’s not the one I want. Now,” he said, tilting Lyla’s head back even further, “you are going to—”  
  
“‘Useful’?” someone demanded, and though Lyla couldn’t see the new arrival, she’d have known Shannon’s brand of indignant anywhere. “‘ _Useful_ ’? If it wasn’t for me, you ungrateful ass, you’d be in a grave right now, or they never would have found you after you drowned. I’ll give you ‘useful.’”  
  
Shannon stomped into the boathouse, still in her prom queen crown and sash, her hands on her hips.  
  
“You maybe wanna get out of here,” Dean told her. But there was no point in telling Shannon anything she didn’t want to hear.  
  
“You promised,” Shannon said. “I’m the one who found you floating in the lake and brought you back. And you promised you would stay with me. And go to the prom with me. It was supposed to be my perfect prom, and instead you disappeared in the middle, and then I find you here with  _her_?”  
  
“I lied,” Bradley said.  
  
Lyla looked over at Dean, and really hoped he was improvising some kind of new plan. From the way the edges of her vision were getting blurry, Lyla suspected she was not getting enough oxygen.  
  
“You miserable bastard,” Shannon said. She stomped further into the boathouse, and pulled a book out from under the tarp that covered the boat. “I’ll show you.”  
  
“Seriously, sister,” Dean said, “you should go.”  
  
At the same time, Bradley took a step towards Shannon, dragging Lyla along with him. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Looking for the spell to undo it,” Shannon snapped. “I didn’t bring you back from the dead for Lyla.”  
  
Bradley took another step towards Shannon, and finally let go of Lyla as he did.  
  
Her knees wouldn’t hold, though, and as she fell, Lyla’s only thought was,  _My God, Shannon is an idiot_.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
_My God, this Shannon chick is an idiot_ , Dean thought. But Bradley was right about one thing, she was useful. Right now, she was one hell a useful distraction, one which gave Dean a second or two to think.  
  
Bradley could  _move_ , and he was on Shannon even before Lyla had completely hit the ground, throwing her into the wall, and then turned toward Dean.   
  
Giving Dean a clear shot.  
  
He fired twice, and Bradley went down mid-lunge. Dean stood over the re-corpsed corpse, and fired two more bullets into his chest. Just to make sure the bastard was really dead.  
  
Well, and partly because he had pissed Dean off.  
  
He looked over at Shannon just long enough to establish that she was neither dead nor a threat, and then turned his attention back to his date.  
  
“Hey,” he said, dropping back on his heels next to her, “don’t try to sit up yet, okay? You fainted.”  
  
“No, I didn’t,” she said. “I got half-strangled by a zombie. I  _might_  have passed out, but I did  _not_  faint.” Dean positioned his hands to catch her if she passed out again, but let her sit up. “Is he dead? Or re-dead, I guess?”  
  
“Yeah. I mean, we’ll still burn the corpse, to be sure, but I think it’s pretty much over.”  
  
“Except for burning the body?” she asked.  
  
“Well, yeah. But that’s mostly precautionary.” He took a final look at Shannon (still out), and then helped Lyla up.  
  
“Get the salt and the gas can, would you?” he asked, and hefted zombie Bradley up onto his shoulder to carry outside. No point in burning a building if you could avoid it – too many questions got asked.  
  
“This part is going to be really gross, isn’t it?” Lyla asked, as Dean dumped Bradley’s body by the lake. He took the can of gasoline and began pouring its contents over the zombie.  
  
“Yep,” Dean said. “Salt?”  
  
She handed him the canister of rock salt. “And what’s the salt for?”  
  
“It’s a purifier, neutralizes a lot of this stuff. There’s a lighter in my jacket pocket,” Dean said, and waited while Lyla found it and handed it to him. “You might wanna step back a little.”   
  
That dress would go up like a torch.  
  
Lyla went up to stand on the dock, and Dean lit the zombie pyre.  
  
He waited till it was going good, and then went to stand with Lyla.  
  
“You okay?” he asked.  
  
She shook her head. “Not remotely. But I will be. I think.”  
  
“Okay. I’m gonna check on our other problem,” he said, jerking his head toward the boathouse. “Wait here. Scream if you need anything.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Lyla watched Dean until he vanished into the boathouse, and then looked back at what was left of her ex-boyfriend.  
  
It really wasn’t the ending he deserved, and she felt like she ought to say something to mark his life, and his death . . . and his undeath, and his . . . redeath? But she had no idea what.  
  
And then her attention was drawn by Shannon’s shrill voice, coming from the boathouse. “You give that back. It’s mine! It took my grandmother years to find all those, and that’s the only copy! Give it back!”  
  
Dean came back out of the boathouse with Shannon storming along in his wake. He was carrying something, though it took Lyla a moment to recognize it as the book Shannon had pulled out from under the tarp earlier.  
  
“I said give that back! It was my grandmother’s, and she left it to me.”  
  
“Yeah, well, find a different family heirloom,” Dean said.  
  
“I need that! I can’t do anything without it. I—NO!” she screamed, as Dean lobbed the book down off the pier onto Bradley’s corpse.  
  
Shannon started back down the dock, clearly hoping to rescue her spellbook before it completely burned. Dean reached out to catch her arm, but missed.  
  
But Lyla had no trouble shoving her into the lake, tiara and sash and all.  
  
Dean, Lyla was pleased to see, looked slightly startled. “I’ve wanted to do that for years,” Lyla confessed. She looked down at the splashing, struggling, swearing Shannon. “I was kind of hoping it would melt her. The wicked witch of Washington High, you know?”  
  
Shannon, spitting out both lake water and insults, managed to get her feet under her, and waded out of the lake. She had lost the tiara, and one of her shoes, and she looked just a little deranged. “I am going to rip you both—”  
  
Dean calmly leveled his gun at her. “This is the last time I’m gonna give you this advice. You really should go.”  
  
Shannon looked for a moment like she was going to do something else truly stupid, and then she hobbled off to her car and drove off.  
  
“We should probably get out of here, too,” Dean said to Lyla.  
  
She took one last look at what had been Bradley, and then nodded.  
  
Dean looked down at his watch. “We might make it back in time for the last dance,” he said.  
  
Lyla, helplessly and possibly even a little hysterically, began to laugh.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
They didn’t talk much – or at all, really – on the way back to the high school. Dean told her to watch out for a tree root or a rock once or twice, and she nodded.  
  
Dean heard Lyla’s sigh of relief when they came out of the woods and saw the Impala. He would have sighed, too, if he’d been alone. But not in front of her.   
“Hey, look,” he said, clearing his throat a little, because damn this was awkward, but he was pretty sure he owed her at least this much. “I’m sorry. For, you know, everything.”  
  
Lyla shrugged. “Well, I always said I wanted a memorable prom night. Looks like I got one.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Um, I kind of need to ask you not to tell anyone about all this, too.”  
  
She laughed again, though without the edge of hysteria he’d heard when she laughed at the lake, thank God. “Dean, who the hell would believe me if I tried?”  
  
He grinned a little. “Well, yeah. There’s that. But still.”  
  
“I won’t tell anyone you saved me from my zombie ex-boyfriend,” she said, raising a hand like she was a girl scout or about to take the witness stand or something. “I promise.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
There was a slightly awkward pause, and then he reached past her to open the passenger side door. “I guess I should take you home,” he said. Or at least, that was what he started to say, but he only got as far as  _take_  before she kissed him, her fingers in his hair and her tongue in his mouth. Dean backed her up against the Impala, and it was obvious even before her hands found the waistband of his jeans that it was the sort of kiss that was leading to something else.  
  
Dean stepped back, just for a second. “Thought this was never, ever gonna happen,” he said.  
  
“Yeah, well, a lot of things I thought were never, ever going to happen have happened tonight. What’s one more?”  
  
“Hey, no argument here, sweetheart,” he said, leaning back toward her.  
  
She put a hand up to his chest to stop him. “Lyla,” she said, firmly.  
  
“Lyla,” he repeated, and slid his jacket down off her shoulders.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
John Winchester was not surprised when his elder son waltzed in at half-past two in the morning, grinning and whistling. The zombie was history, no problem. The prom had been  _great_ , thanks, and yeah, he’d ask Lyla about copies of those pictures on Monday. He was kind of worn out, though, and he was gonna hit the hay. He’d tell Dad everything in the morning.  
  
Nor was John surprised when he didn’t see Dean at all the following morning. If either of his boys was a morning person, it was Sam. Even as a kid, Dean would sleep till 10:00 if John let him. Now that he was a teenager, well, he would get up without complaint if he needed to, but left to his own devices, Dean usually slept well past noon.  
  
But John  _was_  a little surprised when he went out to check the supplies in the Impala after lunch. He always did, after every hunt, to see what needed to be replaced or repaired. Nothing broken, that he saw. Canisters for salt and gas needed refilling, and they were going to need to make some more silver bullets. And . . . what the hell was  _that_?  
  
Surely Dean hadn’t . . . he  _wouldn’t_  have.   
  
Would he?  
  
John walked slowly back into the house, and found Dean sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating cereal straight out of the box.  
  
“Hey, Dad.”  
  
“Son.”   
  
John dropped the rhinestone headband onto the table in front of Dean.   
  
“Is there anything you want to tell me about that hunt last night?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have, I know, taken some liberties with how to kill zombies in the SPN ‘verse. However, in “Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things,” Sam found a variety of lore, and as there are any number of stories from all over about the undead, I think it’s fair to say that perhaps different zombies are killed different ways.


End file.
